April 2009 Posts
Misplaced Old Men and Mailboxes
Last Friday evening I had one sweet hour to kill--alone.
It wasn't that long ago--2007, in fact--when I didn't really have to be anywhere after work. If I was going to hang out with some friends after quitting time, I just told my wife the plan a few hours in advance and that was my life. As most of you are aware, all it takes is one small child to change everything.
Last Friday afternoon I read a text message from my wife reporting that the family was meeting at Deschutes Brewery for my mother in-law's birthday at 5:30. I was at an all-day training kinda close to the brewery, so at 4pm I called my dear wife to announce that I was heading straight to the party instead of going home first. There was first a moment of silence, then she asked: "What are you going to do until everyone gets there?"
"Um, hang out alone and enjoy myself." She was jealous.
A few minutes later I was parking my car near the brewery. But my mission for solo time couldn't happen until I mailed off my life insurance premium, which was due in three days. So I had to find a mail drop box, and find it fast. While I was very familiar with the neighborhood, I couldn't think of where a drop box might be. Who remembers the location of such things? I walked past a Ben and Jerry's and thought about asking an employee, but I refused to suffer the pained grimace of an annoyed teenager who wouldn't know the location of a drop box if it was outside their high school locker. Walking several blocks with no box in sight, I thought, "Google Maps, of course." I pulled up my location on my handheld device and searched for a mailbox. No help.
As I strolled a few more steps, anxiety rising, I spotted an older gentlemen at the end of the block. He had just exited a local store and was adjusting a sandwich board. Of all the people that were walking around that Friday evening in the hip part of Portland, he was the only one who instantly gave me hope. As I walked closer I saw his head turn, and he was smoking a pipe! Hah! Jackpot! Old man+tobacco pipe=Archiver of random facts. I was now certain he could help.
From out of nowhere another guy went up to my old man and asked, "Where is the lady who sets up her art in a booth over here. You see, when I was here four years ago there was a lady..." This guy knew what I knew: The man with the pipe knows stuff. The old man patiently listened to him for a minute as I circled the two, grumpy that another dude beat me to the punch. When he noticed me there, and I interrupted them and asked, "Where is a mailbox?"
The old man pointed to the next street corner and said, "It's over there by the stop sign."
And that was the end of it. I'm insured for another year, and I secured an hour to myself at the brewery before the rest of the family showed up.
Old guys who smoke tobacco pipes know where stuff is.
2 Comments »
Buffet Fantasies and the Golden Dragon
I had some bad Chinese food the other day, and I totally should have
seen it coming. I will elaborate, but first I offer this question:
Would you eat lunch here?
Yes, there is a restaurant in the picture. I'll help you find it.
First, find the tattoo parlor with the creative sign: STRAIGHT TO THE POINT.
Next, find the strip club. Now, look at the yellow sign in between that
says, "Golden Dragon". Jackpot.
After nearly four years at my workplace location downtown, it's shocking that I coexisted with a buffet in close proximity, yet did not one time grace it. A mere two blocks away from my 6x6 cube, I had passed near the Golden Dragon on foot infinity plus a google times. It seems as though I'm always hungry, and I rarely shy away from opportunities to eat enormous proportions or try a bizarre combination. I'll never forget a chocolate ice cream and bacon shake I tried a few years ago here in Portland. The first few bites were great, then the flavors...evolved, let's say. I suppose I'm a food prospector, always looking for that next enormous or strange bite. A food adventurer, if you will. You might also call me a glutton. You choose.
I like Chinese food pretty well. And 'buffet' is a word that lands softly and sweetly on my ears. It's my comfort word. Sometimes when I am having trouble getting to sleep, I just picture steam tray after delicious steam tray of meatloaf and ears of corn and mashed potatoes and gravy with it's skin lining the perimeter. In this soothing fantasy, I'm sliding a giant platter along giant buffet rails on an enormous steam table. As I add each enormous helping, I hear the platter grind slightly louder against the rails until it's a deafening roar at the end by the desserts. But while this cacophony disrupts everyone else around, it comforts me like white noise on the television after I've fallen asleep.
And buffets have meaning for me, as well. In my personal nomenclature, 'buffet' is synonymous with 'license to binge with or without shame'. Pop psychology has saturated us with the concept that the Chinese translation for 'crisis' incorporates both danger AND opportunity (apparently this is not actually true, but it's a legitimate idea based on the nature of change, nonetheless), and I believe it is also the most accurate description of my experience when I've engaged virtually every buffet through the years. First, opportunity: I fill myself to the brim with semi-tasty, unwholesome calories and finally feel complete as a person. Second, danger: Immediate dizziness, occasional narcolepsy followed by ALL of the predictable consequences of an overtaxed gastrointestinal system.
Last month while again passing by the Golden Dragon Chinese buffet and wondering how on earth it had taken me so long to set foot inside, I took a moment to superficially explore the surrounding elements for clues. Of course, there was the ever-present sandwich board outside that has always read "$5.95 All You Can Eat". I think my glances at the buffet's advertised cheap price had subconsciously triggered ambivalence, touching simultaneously on my thriftiness as well as my vague concern for taste and atmosphere. It also occurred to me how off-putting it was that I couldn't see any patrons from the sidewalk. Most restaurants have a window providing quick validation that normal people are eating normal meals inside. This restaurant-foul provided yet another challenge to me. But, as I described in the picture above, the Golden Dragon's neighbors--bookends of vice--have most likely provided reason enough to dine elsewhere. Despite my persistent generalized hunger. Despite my relative fondness for Chinese food. And even despite my fantasies about buffet food. I've taken the liberty to illustrate a number of challenges the Golden Dragon must overcome to get someone to their cash register:
Yes, there is a restaurant in the picture. I'll help you find it.
First, find the tattoo parlor with the creative sign: STRAIGHT TO THE POINT.
Next, find the strip club. Now, look at the yellow sign in between that
says, "Golden Dragon". Jackpot.After nearly four years at my workplace location downtown, it's shocking that I coexisted with a buffet in close proximity, yet did not one time grace it. A mere two blocks away from my 6x6 cube, I had passed near the Golden Dragon on foot infinity plus a google times. It seems as though I'm always hungry, and I rarely shy away from opportunities to eat enormous proportions or try a bizarre combination. I'll never forget a chocolate ice cream and bacon shake I tried a few years ago here in Portland. The first few bites were great, then the flavors...evolved, let's say. I suppose I'm a food prospector, always looking for that next enormous or strange bite. A food adventurer, if you will. You might also call me a glutton. You choose.
I like Chinese food pretty well. And 'buffet' is a word that lands softly and sweetly on my ears. It's my comfort word. Sometimes when I am having trouble getting to sleep, I just picture steam tray after delicious steam tray of meatloaf and ears of corn and mashed potatoes and gravy with it's skin lining the perimeter. In this soothing fantasy, I'm sliding a giant platter along giant buffet rails on an enormous steam table. As I add each enormous helping, I hear the platter grind slightly louder against the rails until it's a deafening roar at the end by the desserts. But while this cacophony disrupts everyone else around, it comforts me like white noise on the television after I've fallen asleep.
And buffets have meaning for me, as well. In my personal nomenclature, 'buffet' is synonymous with 'license to binge with or without shame'. Pop psychology has saturated us with the concept that the Chinese translation for 'crisis' incorporates both danger AND opportunity (apparently this is not actually true, but it's a legitimate idea based on the nature of change, nonetheless), and I believe it is also the most accurate description of my experience when I've engaged virtually every buffet through the years. First, opportunity: I fill myself to the brim with semi-tasty, unwholesome calories and finally feel complete as a person. Second, danger: Immediate dizziness, occasional narcolepsy followed by ALL of the predictable consequences of an overtaxed gastrointestinal system.
Last month while again passing by the Golden Dragon Chinese buffet and wondering how on earth it had taken me so long to set foot inside, I took a moment to superficially explore the surrounding elements for clues. Of course, there was the ever-present sandwich board outside that has always read "$5.95 All You Can Eat". I think my glances at the buffet's advertised cheap price had subconsciously triggered ambivalence, touching simultaneously on my thriftiness as well as my vague concern for taste and atmosphere. It also occurred to me how off-putting it was that I couldn't see any patrons from the sidewalk. Most restaurants have a window providing quick validation that normal people are eating normal meals inside. This restaurant-foul provided yet another challenge to me. But, as I described in the picture above, the Golden Dragon's neighbors--bookends of vice--have most likely provided reason enough to dine elsewhere. Despite my persistent generalized hunger. Despite my relative fondness for Chinese food. And even despite my fantasies about buffet food. I've taken the liberty to illustrate a number of challenges the Golden Dragon must overcome to get someone to their cash register:
Overcome with curiosity about the Golden Dragon, I recently decided to
ignore all the obvious negatives and dine there alone for
lunch. Proudly shame-free, I strolled over to this seedy block for a cheap dining adventure. Here is what I saw after opening the door:
Another challenge and another turnoff for me. I had to admit that a
nice long pre-meal flight of stairs was the perfect exercise for the
buffet consumer. You might call it a show of compassion from the Golden
Dragon. The Chinese-looking references and stylings in the tattered
wallpaper and
ceiling fixtures helped remind me of where I actually was despite the
stairwell's odd likeness to the urban sequences of any of the Matrix
movies. As I began to climb towards the summit, I had the unique
experience of full awareness--awareness that through the wall to my
left were folks were paying professionals to put permanent stains on
their skin, and through wall on my right were other folks paying
professionals to put permanent stains on their clothes. If awareness is
supposed to be followed by internal calm, I was mostly aware that I was not calm. It's not that I am fully opposed to tattoos and strip clubs. As
I've discussed previously, buffet experience is an emotional one for
me, so intermingling with a little grime gives me pause. Cresting
the stairs, my wariness eased a bit with the subtle knowledge that I
was now above fray and riffraff, about to eat Chinese buffet with
other like-minded individuals.
A friendly Chinese woman then greeted me and asked me what I wanted. I replied, "How are you doing today?" She smiled back and said, "Fine." Pause. Then, "What is your order?"
"Um, do you own the Golden Dragon?" She glanced towards the wall, smile fading, "No." I cleared my throat. "Who does?"
"My brother," she said with finality. I appeased her, "I would like one buffet meal, please." While my credit card processed, I exercised my small-talk superpowers with, "How long has he owned this place?" She put the receipt on the table with a pen, then said, "Twenty years," while walking away. But it was ok. After all, I was at a buffet, and I knew the rules.
The idea that one person owned this place for twenty years stuck in my head for a little while as I looked around the place. I got the impression that they must have given up on atmosphere years ago. Reminds me of when single or widowed men get into their 60's and don't have anyone to remind them the comb their hair or put on clean clothes when going out in public or to trim their ear and nose hair. The Golden Dragon is a widowed 65 year old man that is not yet retired and sees no end in sight, wearily working simply because someone will employ him and he must continue to survive.
The dining room was enormous. I counted 25 people eating, but it felt like 5 were actually there. There is a bar (picture below) that I walked through and actually thought was kind of cool. But with zero booze, it was merely a memory of happier days, possibly when then the homeless patrons currently eating their won tons were a little better off. It was also the place where they store piles of dishes in bus tubs waiting to be washed.
Keeping my belongings on my person at all times, I grabbed a tray and a couple
of hot plates. I piled some orange chicken, fried rice, egg rolls and
pot stickers and chose to sit from one of many big, empty booths. I was able
to count by feel three distinct springs holding me up beneath the ancient seat fabric. Unfortunately, I
needed to use the facilities and I spotted them here behind the bar:
The emergency exit doubled as
the entrance to the restroom. After eating some of this food, it was
clear that this hallway had probably serviced many "emergencies" that
were solved easily via fast access to a toilet. I was cheered a bit by "Rest
Rooms" glowing in neon (camera couldn't decipher the lettering well),
but I don't believe the owner was thinking of my mood when he hung it there. I'm all but
certain the sign was given it's second or third chance at utility here
at the Golden Dragon after being pilfered from some poor failed
restaurant long ago.
After customarily stuffing myself with average Chinese food, I felt strangely depressed rather than whole again. The other folks eating their fried fish and rice looked a bit crestfallen. Some looked downright impoverished, or even homeless. Suddenly there was noise outside as a parade of 15 protesters marched down the sidewalk calling for a Free Tibet. Normally you would see a group of people get up and check it out. Instead, everyone glanced up for a second, but then just continued eating through the ruckus (many of the windows were open) without care, myself included. Maybe that's just life in downtown Portland with the frequent demonstrations, but I wonder if we were just all too overcome with calories and melancholy to move. I started to pack up my belongings and fought off the urge to search the steam trays for antidepressants. This passed quickly as I suddenly realized I might not be feeling the good "buffet effect" kind of physically bad, but instead just physically bad.
Aware my insides were decidedly wrong and settling back on my three springs for another moment, my thoughts drifted to a happy place. I saw myself at a buffet, gliding my platter along the steam table rails and happily noticing it's weight making more and more noise. Then somewhere between a malodorous vagrant passing me by and the sight of six tables unbussed, it occurred to me that it was time to make my exit.
As I staggered green to the bottom of the stairs and went out the door, I turned back trying to remember if I had all my belongings with me. A middle-aged man and his loving bride passed me on their way out, smiles around. The man apparently mistook me for someone entering the Golden Dragon to eat. He said, "You'll enjoy it...best Chinese food around. Enjoy."
4/7/09 Addendum: You may wonder why there might be a strip club in the middle of downtown Portland and not on the outskirts of town. The answer is simple: Strip clubs are not disallowed in the City of Portland. They aren't on every street corner as one might imagine, but strip clubs are here and there all over town.
Another challenge and another turnoff for me. I had to admit that a
nice long pre-meal flight of stairs was the perfect exercise for the
buffet consumer. You might call it a show of compassion from the Golden
Dragon. The Chinese-looking references and stylings in the tattered
wallpaper and
ceiling fixtures helped remind me of where I actually was despite the
stairwell's odd likeness to the urban sequences of any of the Matrix
movies. As I began to climb towards the summit, I had the unique
experience of full awareness--awareness that through the wall to my
left were folks were paying professionals to put permanent stains on
their skin, and through wall on my right were other folks paying
professionals to put permanent stains on their clothes. If awareness is
supposed to be followed by internal calm, I was mostly aware that I was not calm. It's not that I am fully opposed to tattoos and strip clubs. As
I've discussed previously, buffet experience is an emotional one for
me, so intermingling with a little grime gives me pause. Cresting
the stairs, my wariness eased a bit with the subtle knowledge that I
was now above fray and riffraff, about to eat Chinese buffet with
other like-minded individuals. A friendly Chinese woman then greeted me and asked me what I wanted. I replied, "How are you doing today?" She smiled back and said, "Fine." Pause. Then, "What is your order?"
"Um, do you own the Golden Dragon?" She glanced towards the wall, smile fading, "No." I cleared my throat. "Who does?"
"My brother," she said with finality. I appeased her, "I would like one buffet meal, please." While my credit card processed, I exercised my small-talk superpowers with, "How long has he owned this place?" She put the receipt on the table with a pen, then said, "Twenty years," while walking away. But it was ok. After all, I was at a buffet, and I knew the rules.
The idea that one person owned this place for twenty years stuck in my head for a little while as I looked around the place. I got the impression that they must have given up on atmosphere years ago. Reminds me of when single or widowed men get into their 60's and don't have anyone to remind them the comb their hair or put on clean clothes when going out in public or to trim their ear and nose hair. The Golden Dragon is a widowed 65 year old man that is not yet retired and sees no end in sight, wearily working simply because someone will employ him and he must continue to survive.
The dining room was enormous. I counted 25 people eating, but it felt like 5 were actually there. There is a bar (picture below) that I walked through and actually thought was kind of cool. But with zero booze, it was merely a memory of happier days, possibly when then the homeless patrons currently eating their won tons were a little better off. It was also the place where they store piles of dishes in bus tubs waiting to be washed.
Keeping my belongings on my person at all times, I grabbed a tray and a couple
of hot plates. I piled some orange chicken, fried rice, egg rolls and
pot stickers and chose to sit from one of many big, empty booths. I was able
to count by feel three distinct springs holding me up beneath the ancient seat fabric. Unfortunately, I
needed to use the facilities and I spotted them here behind the bar:The emergency exit doubled as
the entrance to the restroom. After eating some of this food, it was
clear that this hallway had probably serviced many "emergencies" that
were solved easily via fast access to a toilet. I was cheered a bit by "Rest
Rooms" glowing in neon (camera couldn't decipher the lettering well),
but I don't believe the owner was thinking of my mood when he hung it there. I'm all but
certain the sign was given it's second or third chance at utility here
at the Golden Dragon after being pilfered from some poor failed
restaurant long ago.After customarily stuffing myself with average Chinese food, I felt strangely depressed rather than whole again. The other folks eating their fried fish and rice looked a bit crestfallen. Some looked downright impoverished, or even homeless. Suddenly there was noise outside as a parade of 15 protesters marched down the sidewalk calling for a Free Tibet. Normally you would see a group of people get up and check it out. Instead, everyone glanced up for a second, but then just continued eating through the ruckus (many of the windows were open) without care, myself included. Maybe that's just life in downtown Portland with the frequent demonstrations, but I wonder if we were just all too overcome with calories and melancholy to move. I started to pack up my belongings and fought off the urge to search the steam trays for antidepressants. This passed quickly as I suddenly realized I might not be feeling the good "buffet effect" kind of physically bad, but instead just physically bad.
Aware my insides were decidedly wrong and settling back on my three springs for another moment, my thoughts drifted to a happy place. I saw myself at a buffet, gliding my platter along the steam table rails and happily noticing it's weight making more and more noise. Then somewhere between a malodorous vagrant passing me by and the sight of six tables unbussed, it occurred to me that it was time to make my exit.
As I staggered green to the bottom of the stairs and went out the door, I turned back trying to remember if I had all my belongings with me. A middle-aged man and his loving bride passed me on their way out, smiles around. The man apparently mistook me for someone entering the Golden Dragon to eat. He said, "You'll enjoy it...best Chinese food around. Enjoy."
4/7/09 Addendum: You may wonder why there might be a strip club in the middle of downtown Portland and not on the outskirts of town. The answer is simple: Strip clubs are not disallowed in the City of Portland. They aren't on every street corner as one might imagine, but strip clubs are here and there all over town.